


Baking Tom

by evieplease



Category: Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Baking, Dessert, F/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Pastry Chef, restaurant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 20:11:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9842030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evieplease/pseuds/evieplease
Summary: Tom needs practical experience working in a pastry kitchen for a part.  The pastry chef isn’t too happy about it.





	

“ You have GOT to be fucking kidding me, Joe! Seriously??”  
Isabella stood in the restaurant office, absolutely furious with the restaurant manager who had just informed her that he was going to allow- no, force on her- a friend of his, an ACTOR, no less, to work in HER kitchen, HER. FUCKING. KITCHEN., so that he could “gain some experience” for a film part, of all things!  
Clenching her hands and her jaw, her eyes narrowed at him. If looks could kill…  
“Now, calm down, Iz, it’s only for two weeks…" Joe fiddled with the stack of invoices on his desk, not looking at her.  
"Two weeks?!" she shrieked. "Two fucking weeks?? What makes you think that some candy-ass ‘actor’ (she air-quoted at him) could possibly make it through ONE dessert service, never mind an entire two weeks?? Does he have ANY experience at least?”  
She was clutching at straws, trying to salvage something of the next two weeks work.  
“No, he doesn’t.”  
Her heart sank. “Which is why he needs someone to teach him in a real working kitchen. He really will be there to work and learn, Iz. You can do this. The man needs a real experience, and god knows any experience with you is as real as it gets! And speaking of real- there’s a real ginormous fee in it for you…”  
“Christ, Joe! I don’t care about the money! I have a reputation and a career, and you’re risking that with an utter novice!”  
“Isabella, it’s not rocket science!”  
“It fucking IS, Joe! You want to explain to the insurance company how it is that you allowed an 'actor’ to fucking set fire to our kitchen?" Her body trembling with her apprehension.  
"Jesus, Iz, get a grip! He’s not going to burn the place down! Cami is going to be out having her baby real soon. You can’t run the entire service by yourself for however long it takes for her to get back!" Joe shot back at Isabella, looking exasperated. "You need help!”  
“Yes, I do need fucking help!" She yelled at him. ”Experienced fucking help! So fucking get me some! Not some useless pretty-boy wannabe!“  
"Well, this is what you’re getting, Iz! Make the best of it! Now get the fuck out!" Joe grabbed handfuls of his hair and bent over his desk  
”Fuck, fuck, FUCK!“ Isabella spun on her heel and charged out of the office.  
***  
Tom stepped into the restaurant office expecting to meet his new mentor. His next role involved being a pastry chef, and he needed to learn first hand what that entailed, so the studio had arranged for Tom to experience a real working kitchen and pastry chef. It didn’t hurt that he already knew Joe, and that he knew Joe would come through for him. It especially didn’t hurt that he was fascinated by the idea of being a pastry chef. Imagine making all those marvelous puddings! Real people eating puddings made with his own hands!  
This project had all of Tom’s favorite things wrapped up in one 2 week adventure; learning new unexpected things, researching for a new part, meeting new people, spending time in the real, non-Hollywood world, learning how to make puddings (!), not to mention being in London and going home each night, making his own tea, and sleeping in his own bed every night. The only favorite thing not included was dancing, but Tom had no doubt in his ability to find a way to get a dance or two in.  
Tom had always known that his charm was the key to getting ahead in his world. He was fortunate to understand that the key to staying ahead was in living up to that charm. It helped that Tom genuinely liked people.  
Tom was about to meet someone utterly immune to his charm.  
***  
Isabella spent the next hour in her leather armchair at the back of the kitchen storeroom shaking off the storm with Joe. Finally calm enough, she spent time ordering her dessert menu in her head, setting a timeline for each task to be started and completed, to make damn sure that the right creme, choux, or coulis went onto the right plate at the right temperature, at the right time.  
"Please god, let just one goddam dinner service go according to plan…" Isabella prayed fiercely, with no expectation that her prayers would be answered. She prayed the same thing before every service and the prayer had yet to be answered. Isabella wasn’t holding her breath for tonight, either. She huffed at herself as she finished the last of her espresso, and the last of her mental to-do list at the same time. She stretched her hands, feeling her fingertips tingle with the caffeine with which she’d just jumpstarted her system. She was goddamn wired for sound, now! She stood and stretched her back, bending and twisting, hearing a few random pops. She really had to make time for the chiropractor this week. And buy some batteries. Dammit.  
Slipping into her kitchen crocs, she strode out into her domaine to start her pre-service prep. The dessert station was hers, and she ruled it with an iron fist. There was no fucking around in her kitchen. She had a love/hate relationship with her career as a renowned pastry chef. Well, as renowned as a pastry chef can be in this man’s world. Pastry chefs get no respect from other cooks, as if, just because they work with sugar and flour, they aren’t really cooking. She snorted. It was just as arduous and dangerous in her kitchen as in any other, and she had the scars to prove it. Half those idiots couldn’t put together the simplest panna cotta and make it resemble anything other than school paste. She grinned to herself. Stupid fucks. And that’s another thing, they were all stupid fucks. To a man. 'Wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am!' And they were fucking useless. She may be hellaciously impatient in every other area of her life, but isn’t there one decent man in the universe who was willing to put some time and attention, maybe a little creativity into her sex life? She snorted grimly. Isabella had pretty much given up looking after her last disaster had ended 6 months ago. Now the only 'man’ in her life was her cat, Thomas. And he spent his nights out -hah!- tom-catting around. She’d never gotten him fixed. Thomas seemed to understand that she’d separate him from his balls with a spoon if he dared mark his territory inside her flat. Fortunately, he takes care of his needs outdoors. Renting a flat with a cat flap in the door was the best decision she ever made. Now she didn’t even have to keep a litterbox. And Thomas always seemed to be aware of when she managed to drag herself home every (very) early morning. Without fail, Thomas turned up on her bed, purring at the back of her knees within ten minutes of her climbing under the covers. Pity he was just a cat.  
Isabella shook her musings out of her head as she tied her apron strings.  
***  
Isabella stood in her kitchen, feet planted far apart in a power stance, Hands balled up and planted on her hips. She waited with very little patience for Joe to bring his little protege wannabe.  
Goddamn, she was already pissed at this entire charade! This is HER GODDAMN KITCHEN!  
Joe finally walked into the kitchen trailed by a giant goddamn stick figure. Her first impression of him was of long, long limbs. Christ, he had to be at least a foot taller than her. Joe turned to Tom and said "This is it. Good luck.” and turned tail and left, coward that he is. He left Tom and Isabella to make their own introductions.  
Tom stopped and looked at the woman in the center of the pastry kitchen. She was 5 feet tall, and not a smidge over, 30 years old, dark hair pulled back in a french braid, winged dark brows. Not a stitch of make-up on flashing dark eyes that he soon learned were not so much flashing, as pissed off. Shapeless chefs jacket, black and white checked kitchen trousers and black crocs. Her hands were clenched on her hips, her sharp chin tilted up at him aggressively, and her entire body vibrating with energy and a take no shit attitude.  
Tom knew how to handle this. He stepped forward with his best smile, extended his hand to her and introduced himself. “Hello, darling. I’m Tom. Tom Hiddleston.”  
She paused, leaving his hand hanging out in the air, staring at it.  
Then her hand went to her forehead and she growled “Oh, fuck me sideways!" She looked up at him again and she said "Not in my kitchen, you aren’t, cupcake!”  
Isabella launched into him. “You’re in MY kitchen now, cupcake, and you are now my kitchen bitch! You will do what you’re told, exactly what you are told, and not one thing more or less, you feel me? I am the best goddamn pastry chef in the goddamn city, and if you EVER call me 'darling’ in my own kitchen again, I will cut off your dick, candy coat it, garnish it with orange peel, and make you eat it!!”  
Tom’s hand dropped to his side, his eyes got wide, and he actually took a small step back. She strode up to him, following up her advantage, and got right up in his personal space, looking him up and down insolently. Then she made a slow circuit around him, as his head followed her, appraising him. Standing in front of him, she gestured at his pristine starched white button down shirt, sleeves folded to the elbow, his dark blue tailored slacks. and black shiny dress shoes.  
“This is how you show up for work in a working kitchen?! You aren’t the goddamn Maitre’D! You will wear appropriate working kitchen attire in my kitchen!”  
She turned her head without breaking off her stare into his eyes.  
“Miguel!!” she bellowed.  
“Si, Mama!” came back promptly, and Miguel appeared from the other side of the kitchen, a short, bandy-legged man, dressed in kitchen clothes and a red kerchief around his neck.  
“Miguel, how many balls you got?” not taking her eyes off Tom.  
“Two, Mama!”  
“And why is that, Miguel?”  
“Because I’m a fast learner, Mama, an’ you let me keep 'em for my wife!”  
“Thank you, Miguel. You may go.”  
The man gave Isabella a brilliant smile, threw Tom a look of pity, and walked away.  
Isabella turned back to face Tom, still maintaining that basilisk stare.  
“That is what you will wear.” she indicated Miguel’s retreating form. “Are we clear here, cupcake?”  
“Yes Ma'am.” he intoned solemnly.  
“Good. Let me see your hands.”  
She held out her own. Tom hesitantly gave her both his hands and she examined them, turning them over. Long fingers, broad palms, calluses obviously from weightlifting. otherwise soft and smooth. Nails well cared for and clean. No polish. Thank god.  
“Jesus, these are softer than a baby’s ass! Have you ever worked with your hands before, pretty boy? … That was rhetorical.”  
Isabella dropped his hands.  
“Now look at some real working hands, cupcake.” holding out her own hands for inspection.  
He took her hands in his, bending his head to inspect them, running his long fingers over them. Nicks and scars and scratches. Strong, capable fingers, for all their delicate size, tendons and veins prominent over the backs. He flipped them over and found a large burn scar on her left palm that ran up her wrist over her forearm.  
He ran his fingers across that scar, and when she looked into his face she saw sorrow and pain reflected there. She tugged her hands away from him, his hands clenching and flexing as they fell to his sides, his mouth grim and eyes dark. She stepped back from him and spoke quietly.  
“A kitchen is a dangerous place to be. Never forget that we’re working with hot shit and fire. Your concentration must be absolute. This is not the time to be thinking about the fight you had with your mate, or your latest conquest. Any lapse of concentration could cost you a scar like this. If you’re lucky, it won’t be on that pretty face. Hark now!You hurt yourself and you call me. You don’t try to macho it out! There’s a large pot of fresh, cold, clean water right there.” she pointed. “Any burn injury gets doused immediately. I will decide, and no one else, if you need medical treatment.”  
“And DON’T bleed in my food!”  
The fire-brand was back, and Tom’s mouth couldn’t help but quirk just a little bit at the sight. He did, however, retain the sense not to smile at her.  
“Yes, Ma'am, ” he nodded. “No bleeding in the food.”  
***  
“JESUS! Not that apron! For god’s sakes, get one of the long ones! You look like a prissy 1950’s housewife in my apron!" She snickered, and softened enough to reach one of the full body long aprons down from a hook and hand it to him. Tom looped it over his neck, and she reached around behind him to cross the tapes in back, pull them to the front and tie them securely in place around his waist. She heard him draw a deep breath in through his nose and glanced up at him, way up at him, to find him watching her intently, brows lowered, eyes hooded, and mouth set in a stern line. Her belly muscles quivered and clenched at that look. She glanced back down at her fingers as they were finishing the tie, and gave the knot a vicious yank, feeling some satisfaction as she heard the breath huff out of him. She spun around him and began instructing him. If he insists on being in her kitchen, he’s not only going to work, but he’s going to by-god learn something.  
"This is a working goddamn kitchen, you feel me? There’s no room for goddamn pansy-ass dilettantes here, so do what you’re told, precisely as you’re told to do it and nothing less, got it?  
He nodded. "Yes.” he said tersely  
“Right. Now. You’re going to be making a marsala laced mascarpone creme for tiramisu. Everything you’re doing must be done with precision. Think of it as a chemistry lab. If you don’t get it absolutely right, there WILL be an explosion, you feel me?  
"Yes.” he nodded seriously.  
Isabella proceeded to instruct him as she assembled the ingredients in the bowl, and showed him how to heat the mixture in a bowl placed in a skillet of simmering water. She handed him the whisk.  
“Now, keep stirring that in precisely the way I showed you, until I tell you to stop.”  
His long fingers took hold of the whisk, and doing a passable imitation of the way she had demonstrated, went to work. She watched him for a minute, the steam from the simmering water bath rising and already turning his face shiny and pink. She nodded and turned to her fruit tarts with a parting admonishment.  
“And DON’T sweat into my sauce or I’ll make you fucking wear it!”  
He felt a smile quirk the corner of his mouth. An image of himself naked, covered in this creme instantly popping into his head, causing his trousers to become uncomfortably tight. He shook the thought away. He had no doubt that if he screwed this up that she wouldn’t be letting the creme cool down first, nor would she give him time to get naked before flinging the contents of the bowl at him. She probably wouldn’t be willing to clean him off with her tongue, either… Damn. His belly warmed, and he could feel a flush wash upward over his neck and face. Fortunately, she was occupied with her back to him. Tom shook that thought, as tantalizing as it was, away too, concentrating on stirring. Who would have thought that this simple act could be so strenuous?  
After a few more moments, he twisted his neck to the side and wiped his face on his shoulder and upper arm, already perspiring enough to endanger the creme.  
Isabella moved behind him and peeked around him at the bowl, reaching a small spoon into the creme, lifting it and letting it dribble from the spoon.  
“The consistency is almost right. When it’s right it will fall from the spoon in a more cohesive dollop, rather than dribbles, do you see?”  
“Yes.”  
“Alright. Here, taste." And she reached high and tipped the spoon to his lips. She watched his face as his tongue snaked out and delicately dipped into the spoon, wary of the heat. He quickly drew his tongue back into his mouth and a low moan issued out. She was mesmerized as his tongue quickly reappeared and, forsaking delicacy, licked the flat of his tongue over the bowl of the spoon, greedily licking up the rest of the creme. He opened his eyes and looked down at her seriously. His eyes were dark and his pupils wide.  
"Wonderful…” he breathed, his voice an octave lower than she’d expected.  
“Of course it is!” she snapped, dropping the used spoon into the sink and snatching up another clean spoon for her own taste.  
“Keep stirring. When you think the consistency is right, tell me. Don’t overcook it!”  
Isabella turned away and began to assemble the hazelnut torte, putting him out of her mind while she worked. Or working to put him out of her mind? Focus! she thought to herself. She had just finished with the torte when Tom called her over to check the consistency of the creme. Surprisingly enough, it was just about perfect.  
“Stop stirring. Now, take it off the heat. Not the water bath, you idiot, just the bowl! There’s a potholder, use it! Ok, set it there, it needs to cool for 15 minutes. Come back every 5 minutes and stir it like this…” she demonstrated.  
“Now. Get your ass over here.” she gestured a demanding finger at the counter covered with trays of pastry squares, and a bowl of cherries, orange zest and walnut filling.  
“These will be cherry raviolis served with vanilla creme." She scooped a spoonful of filling and dropped it precisely in the centre of one of the squares.  
"Do this. This much filling in each square. In the centre of the square. DON’T dribble the sauce over the tray." She handed him the spoon and watched while he concentrated on carefully putting the correct amount of filling in the correct centre spot. She moved over, leaving him to it.  
"And for god’s sake don’t forget to stir the creme you just made!" He started guiltily and glanced at his watch. Another 2 minutes to go before he needed to stir the stuff. He continued to fill the squares, glancing at her now and then. She was standing in front of her own tray of pastry squares and was rapidly filling her squares with the precise amount of filling each. He couldn’t believe how blindingly fast and how fastidious she was. Isabella was already half way done with her tray, whilst he was still on his first row. He set his spoon back in the bowl and turned to give the mascarpone creme a quick stir, setting his watch for when the next stir should happen. Turning back to the pastry squares, he filled 2 more squares. On the third square the filling clung to the spoon. He reached out a finger to tick the filling off into the centre of the square, and brought his finger to his mouth to lick off the stickiness.  
Suddenly she had her hand around his wrist in a vise-like grip.  
"Stop right there, boy!” she growled. “What do you think you’re going to do with that finger after it’s been in your filthy mouth, eh?”  
She forced his hand down to the skirt of his apron, and firmly wiped his finger across his belly.  
“This is what your apron is for. And don’t put your disgusting hands in my food!”  
Tom blushed. Both at his faux pas and at the reaction he felt as she drew his hand forcefully across his belly. He didn’t understand how he could be so intimidated by this tiny tyrant, and yet so completely… turned on. Tom was used to being in absolute control of his body and it’s outward manifestations of his emotions. That control and precision is what made him the actor he was. And yet, here he was, blushing and getting hard like some bloody schoolboy! He turned his thoughts forcibly away to his task. He finished filling the pastry squares, checked the time, turned to stir the creme again, and turned back to Isabella for more instructions.  
Isabella demonstrated the precise folds and twist to close each square around it’s filling, watched him do one and grunted approval.  
She turned away and wiped the sweat off her face onto her sleeve. She couldn’t watch him close the pastries, She found herself fascinated with the elegance and economy of movement of those long, pale fingers. Those fingers should be playing a piano, or violin. Watching his uncut, unburnt, unscarred hands manipulate her dough was enough to send a lightning storm through her body. Jesus! She didn’t have time for this! But she couldn’t stop the image forming in her head of those long fingers at her breast, tweaking and twisting her nipples, trailing down her body, manipulating other…things. Gah! She dragged her attention back to her task list, and pulled some profiteroles out of the oven in the nick of time.  
Isabella turned quickly from stacking the layers of another hazelnut torte, to move to the hard sauce she needed to start for the caramel apple bread pudding on tonight’s menu. As she spun around, the spatula she held in her hand collided with the body at the counter behind her. The body she was studiously trying to ignore. The impact knocked the spatula out of her hand and onto the floor between his long feet.  
“Goddamn!” she exploded. “Move your fat ass!!" She bent to retrieve the spatula, as he danced around trying to get out of her way, snatching it up from between his feet and accidentally catching the corner of his apron on her shoulder as she stood, giving her a good look at the erection straining his zipper, right at eye level.  
"Christ,” she muttered, “the things you see in a kitchen…”  
Levering herself the rest of the way to her full 5 feet height, she tossed the dirty spatula into the sink and grabbed her hard sauce ingredients, tempted to take a swig of the cognac bottle in her hand. She couldn’t help the sideways slide of her glance, checking him out again. Then she made the mistake of glancing upward at his face. And he made the mistake of allowing his enjoyment of her interest to show in his face. At his sparkling eyes and knowing grin, she lost her shit.  
“Goddammit!!” she roared. “You’re distracting me! THAT’S distracting me!” She pointed at his crotch, and then swept her pointing finger towards the door opposite. “There’s the mens room! Get in there and take care of that! Don’t take too long, and for fuck’s sake, don’t fucking forget to wash your fucking hands after!"  
She spun away from him, her hands already at her next task. She fully expected him to rip his apron off and storm out of the kitchen in a testosterone-fueled huff, but he surprised her. She didn’t look to see his reaction at being so peremptorily ordered to jerk off, but she heard it. He laughed, a full-throated belly laugh.  
"Look! she scathed at him, "I’m not fucking around here! I don’t have time for this! Either get off, or get out, but do it NOW!”  
She turned back to make her point only to see his back disappearing into the men’s room.  
“As ordered, Ma'am!” floated back as he gently closed the door behind himself.  
***  
Tom leaned against the door, flipping the lock. He couldn’t believe the sheer nerve of that woman, ordering him to have a wank! God, he wanted her. He could feel himself swell and throb at the mere thought of putting that filthy mouth to his cock. Tom palmed himself, god, he could hammer nails with this! He pulled the apron up. She had tied this thing with her own hands and he liked the idea of it brushing against his thighs as he jerked off to it’s owner.  
Unbuttoning and unzipping, he let his trousers fall, and grasped himself, falling automatically into the grip and pressure that pleased him most. He turned to face the wall, bracing himself with his left arm, and burying his face in the crook of his elbow. His hand moved slowly up his shaft, moved back a little to clear his foreskin, and his thumb made that little sweeping gesture that felt so much like the sweep of a woman’s tongue, her tongue, picking up the bead of liquid at the tip, moistening and soothing the head of his cock. More wet, he needs more wet. Licking his palm and imagining the swipe of her tongue, the warmth and suction of her mouth around his fingers, he transferred the needed moisture where it would do the most good.  
Imagining gathering her loose dark hair away from her face so he could watch his cock sliding in and out of that lovely, dirty mouth, using his grip on her hair to guide her. His pace picking up, his brain becoming fevered as he imagined hitting the back of her throat, and the sensation of her swallowing, rippling, and squeezing his cock head. He could feel her apron brushing against him, feeling like the sweep and brush of her hair over his thighs.  
A low groan escaped his mouth as the sensations intensified. 'More, oh god, more’ were the only words left in his brain, his imagination taking over completely, as he saw himself lifting her off him by her hair, flipping her around and burying himself to the hilt, fucking her hard against her pristine counter top, pounding, flying into her. He can see her there in his minds eye, lying across the counter top on her belly, her lovely breasts mashed against the cold, hard surface, her feet dangling inches off the floor, hands scrabbling for purchase, his hands on her shoulders anchoring her against his thrusting, pulling that delicious cunt back onto his cock as she panted and mewled with every thrust into that searing… gripping… dripping cunt, until…  
“Isabella!!!” flew out of his mouth, and “FUCK!” in a shout as he came. And came. And came. Head thrust back, neck arched and straining, heart pounding in his ears, breath suspended. Hips thrusting with each contraction and rush of his balls emptying themselves.  
He fell weakly against the wall, resting his head against it’s coolness as he recovered his breath, his balance- not to mention his equilibrium. He stared down at himself, his hand and apron covered in his cum, shaking his head in disbelief and no little wonderment. That woman! What spell has she laid on him to so completely surmount his usual professional distance this way? He chuckled to himself. Witchcraft indeed. She had him jumping to order so well that he hadn’t even considered disobeying her when she ordered him in here to take care of his 'distraction’.  
He chuckled and glanced at his watch. Ooops. He’d been in here nearly 10 minutes. She’d be banging on the door and shouting at him to quit fucking around if he didn’t get his skates on… He yanked the ties to his apron, pulling it off and using it to wipe himself free of his mess. He’d been right, he mused, it really had been delicious to wank off into it, feeling it brush against his thighs as he moved. He dropped it on the floor and carefully washed his hands, a little smirk on his lips as he decided what demeanor to present when he exited the the mens room.  
He schooled his face into 'Serious Student’. There would be no hint of what he had just done on his face. No passion, no embarrassment, no satisfaction, regardless of the fact that all of those were his uppermost emotions. If Little Miss Chef thought she had him cowed, she’d soon learn differently. Giving himself a last glance in the mirror, he straightened his collar, squared his shoulders and picked up the discarded apron.  
Tom exited the mens room, quietly closing the door behind him and walking over to the hooks where the clean aprons hung. Finding a large hamper next to the aprons, he dropped his thoroughly used apron into it, sparing a fleeting smile for exactly what he was depositing, and reaching up to select a clean apron. He slipped it over his head, and pulled the ties around as she had done earlier, tying it firmly around his waist. Looking up to locate her and see what she was doing, he quietly slipped into place at her elbow and patiently waited for instruction.  
Isabella glanced into his intent face as he watched her lace raspberry coulis over some plates in preparation for placing tiny cakes and tarts onto them. Such a good boy, she thought with the tiniest of smirks.. But no time for that now. She handed the squeeze bottle to him, and gestured at the rows of empty plates in front of her.  
“These are the last. Service is almost over. We’ll get these done and out the door and then we can start cleaning.” she said firmly.  
Tom silently went about decorating the plates as she came behind him, plating the delicate little cakes and tarts. Twenty minutes later they were done and the last of the desserts ferried out to the front of the house. Isabella stood still and drew a deep breath, letting it out slowly along with the tension in her shoulders. Opening her eyes, she surveyed the destruction of her kitchen. She pointed Tom to the pile of dirty pots, bowls and utensils in the sink.  
“Rinse those off, set aside any that need to be scrubbed and put the rest in the dishwasher. Miguel will show you how to fit them into the racks.  
She went to the cleaning cupboard and pulled out a stack of clean dish towels and cleaning solution, and proceeded to scrub every square inch of her cooking space, including the stove tops, backsplashes, and shelving. An hour later Tom was rinsing the mop for the last time, and they were done. It usually took her two hours, so she supposed Tom was good for something. He’s done quite well tonight, considering. She’d had to spend too much time keeping an eye on him, making sure he didn’t do something too boneheaded, but all-in-all… He certainly took direction well!  
"Oi! Mama! We leavin’ now! See you mañana!” Miguel called, “Night!” she called back, and she heard the alley door slam shut.  
She sighed as she dropped the last dirty dish towel into the laundry hamper, and looked around for Tom. She found him leaning back against a clean counter top, his hand rubbing the back of his neck as he stretched the tension out, letting his head fall back with a small groan. A little smile quirked her lips. Why not? She climbed onto a step stool and reached up to the shelf above the apron hooks into her personal stash of cognac.  
“Want a drink?” she tilted the bottle at him in invitation.  
“God, yes!” he laughed.  
She pulled off her dirty apron and uniform, dropping sweat stained jacket and trousers into the laundry hamper, leaving her standing in a white singlet, braless, and a pair of pink boy shorts. She turned to him. “I wouldn’t recommend that you put your own clothes in there, but I can loan you a set of whites if you want.”  
“No, that’s fine." He dropped his own soiled apron into the hamper, pulled out his shirttails and unbuttoned his shirt, leaving it open to let some of the heat radiate off his body. Gods, that chest. She resolutely turned her eyes away.  
"Jesus, Isabella!” he blew out a breath. “You do this every night?”  
“No, only 6 nights a week. We’re dark on Thursdays. And I usually have an experienced assistant, but she decided to have a baby this week. God knows when she’ll be back, or if I’ll ever see her again. Babies and restaurants don’t mix well… Follow.” she commanded.  
She threw her bag over her shoulder, picked up the bottle of cognac and a couple of handy snifters, then made her way down the hall to the outside service door and they emerged in the back garden. The restaurant had a few tables and chairs on the brick patio for outdoor dining, the customers long gone and the garden dark. She flipped a switch with her elbow and fairy lights came on, strung through the plantings of flowering shrubs and trees.  
Isabella put the glasses down on a table and pulled the cork out of the cognac, pouring a generous measure into each snifter. “Sit.” she pointed to a chair and handed him a glass. She pulled a chair around for herself, slinging her bag over the back. She groaned as she sat. “A votre sante” she said, and lifting the glass to her lips, downed the entire contents in one go. Huffing out a breath laced with the fire trail of the cognac, she reached and poured another. Tom had followed suit, and she tipped the bottle over his extended glass before setting it down. She leaned back and scrubbed her face briefly, then reached back and pulled the tie from her plat. Running her hands into her hair, she pulled the braid apart, leaned forward over her knees and swept all her hair over her head, scratching her scalp and groaning away the tension. Well, her tension. Tom’s tension somehow redoubled. He watched her, thinking he’d have liked to do that for her. He reached up to scrub at his own hair. It felt good.  
Tom sprawled back into his chair with his second drink in hand, this time sipping it properly and appreciating the fine spirit. The garden was peaceful in the dim lighting. He hadn’t realized how cacophonous a working kitchen was until the silence of the garden enveloped him, his ears still ringing. He leaned his head back wearily and closed his eyes for a moment. When he heard her stirring, he opened his eyes and rolled his head over to watch her sit up and sweep her hair behind her shoulders. She reached into her bag and came back out with a small metal canister.  
“Well, cupcake, you did pretty well for a virgin.” she grinned at him. “Cigar?”  
He grinned back at her, sitting up. “Thank you, darling, don’t mind if I do!”  
She snorted. She wouldn’t have put up with being 'darling-ed’ in her kitchen, but they were technically not in her kitchen at the moment. They busied themselves with snipping and lighting their cigars, and then relaxed back in their chairs, silently puffing and sipping.  
Tom looked over at Isabella, watching this sprite of a woman lounge back unselfconsciously in her pink knickers and singlet, sipping brandy and smoking a cigar. So many intriguing contradictions… he was quite smitten. This was without a doubt the most bizarre and brilliant night of his life, not withstanding that weird episode with the banana in Amsterdam.  
She blew out a cloud of smoke, and then she began to giggle.  
“Oh my god, cupcake, I’ve ordered many ham-fisted idiots out of my kitchen before, but never before tonight have I ever ordered someone to go jack off!!" The giggles progressed into snickers and then into a full-throated laugh, legs outstretched, arms dangling off the chair and her head tilted back baring her lovely neck, she laughed with her whole body.  
He joined in. How else? Her laughter was contagious. Not to mention captivating.  
"It was a first for me too, darling, I assure you!”  
Another peal of laughter issued from her belly. She gasped. “I can’t believe you… and then you… the utter aplomb with which you carried out my orders! Oh my god!” she gasped through her laughter.  
“…And then when you called out my name?? Jesus fuck! I nearly creamed myself! Right in the middle of dinner service! She laughed again. "You’re something else, cupcake!" She glanced over at him to find that Tom was no longer laughing, but rather staring at her with eyebrows raised, and a rather dangerous look on his face.  
"What?” she asked, wondering if she’d offended him at last.  
“Only nearly, darling? If that’s the case then clearly my work here this evening is not finished.” he intoned in a low voice, watching her face intently. He saw surprise cross her face, and then a certain hunger pinched her mouth. That mouth…  
Tom held his hand out to her. “Come here, darling Isabella. I consider myself a gentleman, and a gentleman never leaves a lady unfinished.” he said firmly.  
She stared at his hand for a long moment, undecided, chewing on her lower lip. Her eyes flickered back to his face, searching his eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, he thought that she was about to tell him to fuck off, but to his surprise she said nothing. As the silence went on she seemed to shrink in on herself slightly, and she looked away. Tom knew he was losing the moment.  
He clicked his fingers. “Now, darling.”  
He nearly purred when she tentatively reached for his hand and stood. She looked astonished at herself, but let him draw her to himself. Tom brought her to stand between his knees. She was such a little thing that even standing while he sat she wasn’t much taller than he. He leaned back, surveying her as he came to understand what just happened. They say it’s always the quiet ones, but in Tom’s experience, it’s often the loud ones. The women who are in control of their lives and their environments, the competent, no-nonsense women that are the ones who most seem to need to relax and let go, to let someone else take charge once in a while. Isabella pushes all Tom’s buttons. Petite, profane, funny, ferocious, audacious, strong, competent, and most of all, unexpected.  
Tom’s hands reached out, his eyes never leaving hers, and lightly traced the hem of her singlet, teasing at the skin of her belly underneath. Isabella’s breath hitched, and her body squirmed at the tickle of his light touch. She leaned into that touch to bring his hands more firmly into contact with her body.  
“Don't… don’t tease me Tom.” she whispered. “I’ll kill you just to watch you die, if you’re fucking with me, cupcake…” her whisper sounded more vulnerable than menacing.  
“Oh, darling, I never tease.” he replied quietly. “I guarantee you’ll find your release… eventually.” His hand moved up to trace her collarbones, and slid back down to trail the outside curves of her breasts through her singlet.  
"Don’t worry, Isabella, I’ve got you…" he smiled up at her.  
He watched the pulse jump in the hollow of her throat as she tried to take a calming breath. She reached behind her head and yanked her singlet off over it, flinging it from her and standing straight in front of him, exposed, breasts trembling.  
Tom sat slowly upright, his hands floating to her breasts.  
“Oh, Isabella.” he breathed, “so pretty… so perfect." He reached one finger out and gently caressed a pink, tight nipple with a fingertip. Tom looked up into her eyes, and she was astounded to see his eyes misting.  
"You are perfection.” he picked up her left hand and brought her wrist to his mouth, running his tongue lightly over the burn scar there, kissing the tender skin in the crook of her elbow, and biting lightly at her rounded bicep.  
“You’re so strong, and yet so soft. You have an indomitable will, a filthy mouth to enforce your will, and yet these hard scarred hands create the most beautiful, delectable foods that delight the tongue and nourish the soul.”  
He let her arm gently drop and ran his hands up slowly from her thighs to her hips, over her ribs, and cupped her breasts,bending his head to them at last.  
Isabella whimpered as he gently bit down on a nipple and lightly scraped his teeth along it, replacing his tongue with his thumb, he moved his mouth to the valley between her lovely breasts, swiping his tongue upwards, tasting the dried sweat from her labors there.  
“You taste of salt, and sugar, and you smell of vanilla, and all things good….mmm.” he moaned appreciatively. His hands slid down to her knickers, tracing the edges, running a hand up the inside of her thigh.  
“Open your legs for me now, dear girl.” he murmured quietly, gently pushing her legs apart and running the back o his hand over her sex, a knuckle brushing over her clit.  
“Oh darling, do you know what you do to me?” he whispered. “All flashing eyes and in utter command of your domaine, permeating every square inch of the space, and projecting an image of being 8 feet tall…”  
Tom slid her knickers down to her ankles and helped her step out of them. Then he scooped her up and laid her gently out on the table, sweeping his upper arm from underneath her shoulders, up her neck and head, fanning her rippling hair out on the table above her in a dark halo.  
He leaned down and kissed her mouth softly, and she sucked his lower lip in between her teeth, licking and suckling his lip, scraping her teeth along the tender inside as he slowly pulled away. He kissed down her jaw and down her neck softly, whispering into her skin.  
“All I could think about as I touched myself was your mouth, your wonderful, filthy mouth gliding over me and offering itself up to me. Suckling me like a babe at breast, taking me deep into your throat…”  
His mouth continued to whisper down over her torso, his hands sliding under her to squeeze her arse, pulling her to the edge of the table. Tom reached behind himself and snatched the cushion off his chair, dropping it under his knees on the bricks. At last, at last he leaned his mouth onto her sex, giving her a full open mouthed kiss. Sitting back on his heels, he stroked 2 fingers down her lips to her entrance, circling just inside, picking up the moisture there.  
“Is this for me, Isabella.." Isabella whined and lifted her hips, offering herself to him.  
"Salt and sugar and vanilla…” he moaned, licking her from his fingers. He watched her writhe for a moment, her torso and hips undulating, seeking him and his touch again. He bent once more and stroked his tongue over her, delving just a little deeper.  
“Tom…” she called. “Please…”  
He slowly inserted two fingers, stroking languidly in and out.  
“You taste so good, Isabella, I want to wear your scent on my skin.”  
And he ran his nose, lips and scratchy chin up the length of her folds and over her clit. The delicious scratch of his stubble over her clit made her jerk and cry out wordlessly.  
Mmmmm,“ he hummed, "Hello, there you are.” and he deliberately repeated that long slow drag up her inner folds, finishing with that little firm scrape of his stubble against her clit several more times until she was whining his name and squirming against him.  
“Tom… Tom… oh god, Tom, I… Don’t stop! God, don’t stop! I’m gonna…”  
“Cum, Isabella. Cum, brilliant girl. Cum for me! Oh, that’s gorgeous, you beautiful beautiful woman! Oh god…" Tom groaned out as he watched her body arch and felt her clamp down and strain out her orgasm, crying a strangled "Uuuhhh!" Followed by whimpers intermixed with Tom’s name.  
Tom slid up her body as she stilled, and tilted his forehead against hers.  
So gorgeous. Beautiful Isabella.”  
Tom lifted his lips and kissed “Bellissima” into a whisper on her forehead.  
“Welcome to my kitchen…”


End file.
